Читать книгу The Lie Circumspect - Rita - Страница 9

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Mrs. Haughton did not write the letter she had intended. What she did write was a cordial invitation to Mrs. Monteath to come on a month's visit and bring her little boy with her. They could then decide as to mutual suitability. It was quite an unconventional proceeding in the way of engaging a governess, but Mrs. Haughton neither knew of nor cared for conventionalities. Her life had been a thing apart from them so long that they did not occur to her as important.

Mrs. Monteath answered the invitation with an unhesitating acceptance for her boy and herself.

"You can send him away," she concluded, "if you do not want him. He is good enough as boys go, but a house is quieter without him—that I must say."

Lawrence Haughton was somewhat annoyed at the threatened invasion. His small daughter, however, soon reduced him to order, and the reflection that he need not concern himself about the visitors speedily restored his equanimity. He was beginning to find that his position held certain duties and responsibilities he could not evade. He had a land steward, certainly—but even a land steward cannot do everything necessary for an estate of importance.

His wife relegated all matters connected with farms and leases to him, pleading ill-health as an excuse. He liked the new sense of importance attached to such powers, liked the respect paid to him by tenants and laborers, the giving of orders, and suggestions. The steward, Anthony Hibbs, by name, had grown old in the service of the Haughtons, though he was to outward appearance hale and strong and good for twenty years' more work, as he declared. He was not particularly impressed by the new master of the manor. He liked a man who would ride straight to hounds, be out all weathers, and have a pleasant word for all, rich, poor, or vagrant. Mr. Haughton was, in his opinion, standoffish and stiff—too much concerned about his own dignity and too little about other people's comfort. Besides, he would not see that the property needed improvement. His nearest neighbor, Lord Hallington, had done wonderful things for his tenants—built them model cottages and a model school; and above all, a model alehouse, which was highly appreciated. But the manor was quite behind the times, and Anthony Hibbs pointed this out regretfully, only to receive for answer, "It will do well enough."

"Maybe it's not having a son," reflected the steward, to whom hereditary rights were all important. "The little lady is well enough and a picture of beauty, but those who have property don't need daughters."

The "little lady" indeed was making herself known to all and sundry without respect of persons. She and Mary Connor drove in a little pony-cart every day when the weather was fine, and the child attracted notice wherever she went by reason of her brilliant beauty and her absolute fearlessness.

Some of the country folk pronounced her talk "a bit outlandish," and were inclined to pity her on the score of bringing up; but with her usual quickness Val dropped her foreign tricks in homely company, seeing they interfered with a due appreciation of herself.

Having won her way with regard to the "boy" companion, she was on her best behaviour during the week that intervened between the invitation and its acceptance. But her little brain was busy weaving schemes for his amusement and entertainment, and possibilities of exquisite mischief floated through her mind as park and orchard, farms and granaries, poultry-yards and pigstyes presented themselves in the light of future playgrounds.

When the all-important day arrived at last she was in a fever of expectation. In all her life hitherto she had never had a companion of her own age. Her mother had kept her entirely with herself, with the result that her ideas and opinions were far in advance of her years.

Mrs. Monteath was expected about 5 o'clock, and Val had herself dressed in her scarlet frock and hurried down to the hall, where her mother was reclining in a cushioned lounging-chair.

The tea-table was drawn up near the fire, and the glow of crimson shaded lamps and ruddy flames was reflected in the antique silver tea-service. Great bowls of chrysanthemums and autumn leaves and berries made rich spots of color against the dark panelled walls, and family portraits stared sombrely from the same background.

It was a charming scene, and one rendered doubly so by contrast with the chill mist and dull grey clouds of the world without.

At least Kathleen Monteath thought so as the door opened to admit her. She paused a moment on the threshold, taking in with one quick glance the luxury and comfort and artistic beauty so suddenly revealed. Then she swept forward, holding her boy by the hand.

"How can I thank you?" she said, and there were tears in her eyes as she stooped over the slight figure lying back on the cushions. "I need not ask who you are," she went on rapidly. Her voice was rich and full-toned, her whole personality expressive. "And is this your little girl? Barry, shake hands with Mrs. Haughton, and say 'How do you do?' to the young lady."

"Oh, I like you," exclaimed Val suddenly, and she threw her arms about the boy's neck in a manner that evidently discomposed him.

Mrs. Monteath laughed, Mrs. Haughton looked surprised. The boy colored and struggled in a boyish fashion. But the ice was broken. No formality could exist where Kathlean Monteath was. She threw off her furs and drew up a chair to the fire and rattled off remarks, exclamations, and descriptions with a rapidity that left her hostess speechless. Yet Nell felt irresistibly attracted by her. She was so handsome—so brilliant—so full of life and vivacity. Her very presence was magnetic, and the frail and friendless woman whose whole life had been burdened with tragedy revived like a drooping flower beneath this invigorating influence.

"Let me pour out tea and wait upon you," pleaded the new arrival. "I like to be useful, and you look so very delicate. You really must let me be of some service."

"If you would kindly ring the bell?" said Nell. "I waited for your arrival, and there are some hot cakes to come in for the children."

Mrs. Monteath was a little surprised that no liveried footman appeared—only a neat parlormaid, who placed the teapot on the table and set the cakes on a brass tripod before the fire. However, she poured out the tea and did the honors as if she had known Nell all her life. Yet it would have been impossible to take offence or look upon her actions as presumptuous. Kathleen Monteath was really a large-hearted woman, full of kindliness and goodwill. To anything weak or sickly or helpless she expanded immediately, her bountiful loving-kindness overflowing all conventional restraints and taking the sufferer into a warm and ready-made embrace for no other reason but that there was suffering.

It was impossible to resist her. After the first moment of surprise Nell made no effort to do so, but laughed and talked and listened as for years she had never done to anyone from the world external.

The children meanwhile fraternised in their own fashion, sitting side by side at a small low table, which Val always appropriated to her own tea service, and eating muffins and tea cakes with the natural healthy appetite of their years.

Mrs. Monteath wondered that the master of the house did not present himself, but forebore a question on that matter, being indeed bent on studying her new surroundings and overthrowing any barrier of the cold English prejudice she had half expected. She soon assured herself there was none to overthrow. Mrs. Haughton had no dignity and self-importance. Kathleen Monteath placed her in the position of placid, gentle invalid, and saw herself enthroned as an important member of the household. In a space of time that a less quick imagination would have occupied in mere question and response, she learnt that Mrs. Haughton had but recently entered into possession, that she knew little of the county, less of her neighbors, and seemed inclined to relegate her position to that of a recluse.

Kathleen Monteath felt that such a proceeding was altogether ridiculous. What was the use of possessing a beautiful house and a position of importance if one did not also enjoy their advantages? She resolved, however, to defer expostulation or judgment until she had made the acquaintance of her host. She had never dreamt of placing herself in any position but that of guest after five minutes' conversation with Elinor Haughton.

"Would you like to see your room? We dine at half-past 7," said Nell at last.

She rose at the same time. The soft folds of her olive velvet tea-gown swept around her slight figure. She looked frail and "petite" beside the Juno-like proportions of the handsome Irishwoman.

"I should indeed; but don't you trouble to come upstairs."

"Oh, I am not quite such an invalid," smiled Nell. "And I should like to see that everything is comfortable. I have given your little boy a dressing-room opening out of your bedroom."

"He will come with me now," interposed Val eagerly. "I want to show to him my toys and my big rocker-horse, and the steam train I did ask papa—mon pere, to order from London, because I had no boy toys at my hand. Come, Barry, you do not desire to go with your mamma, is it so?"

"Not I," said the boy. "I'd rather see the train."

They ran off up the great staircase, watched by their mothers' eyes.

"How soon children understand one another. And how quaintly your little girl speaks. It's the prettiest thing I ever heard," said Mrs. Monteath.

"She has been abroad so much that French is quite as familiar to her as English."

"Abroad. How much that word conveys. The happy months I too have spent abroad. France, Italy, Spain—I know them all. Ah, Mrs. Haughton, a widow's loss means more than widowhood—the good things of life—its pleasures and alleviations."

She sighed deeply and Nell's pitying glance spoke sympathy.

"You have had a great sorrow, I fear," she said gently.

"Great—no words can express it," answered her visitor. "I shall walk in darkness all my days henceforward. The shadow of the grave is over all that made my life sunshine."

"The shadow may pass one day. Life cannot always give us gloom. And you have your child to live for."

"That is true, and I love him dearly, but can any child make one's life? You are a happy woman, Mrs. Haughton. You need not answer that question."

Nell did not answer it. Her pale face grew a shade paler; at least so it seemed to those observant eyes. But she only hurried along the softly-carpeted corridor, and stopping before a door threw it open, and signed to her companion to enter.

Kathleen Monteath gave an exclamation of rapture.

"Oh, you are too good," she cried, as her fine eyes roved over the wonders of upholstery, the harmonious blending of color and luxury and convenience which the apartment expressed.

She stood and gazed with clasped hands and quivering lips.

"You are treating me as a guest—not a governess," she exclaimed.

"I am treating you as the friend I hope you will become," said Nell gently.

Mrs. Monteath's eyes turned from her luxurious surroundings to the pale, uplifted face beside her. A wave of color spread from cheek to brow.

"Indeed," she said, "it would be the hardest task in the world not to be a friend to one so generous and so kind. And I am only a stranger. Why——" she broke off abruptly, and then crossed over to the fireplace, where the wood logs blazed and glowed in warm and welcoming glow—"you know nothing of me," she continued rapidly. "You took me at my own valuation, so to speak; not a reference, not a question. For all you know I may be an adventuress—a woman who ought to have no place here in your house by your child's side."

"I never thought of questioning your sincerity," said Elinor Haughton gravely. "When I read your letter I read it as the appeal of a woman in trouble to—to a woman who has known trouble also. I, too, have been poor and friendless. I have known the world's scant mercies. Should such knowledge teach no lesson?"

"It rarely teaches the lesson of such noble charity as yours," exclaimed Kathleen Monteath, turning her tear-filled eyes to the pitying gaze bent on her face. "Usually it hardens or embitters—or leaves one reckless."

"We will not talk of such results," said Nell gently. "We have escaped them in our own instance, I hope—their memory or their possibility need not set us apart. It is an odd thing, but in all my life I have never had a woman friend. Your letter drew me to you in the strangest way. But you are your letter embodied. I felt that at once. I could not treat you as a stranger. Surely you saw——"

"I saw the kindest, dearest, best little woman it has ever been my lot to meet," exclaimed Kathleen Monteath passionately. "May God bless you for what you have done this day. You do not recognise, yourself, how much it means, or may mean; from what shipwreck of soul and body, you may have saved a fellow-sister. But you have made her your bond-slave for ever. Perhaps some day she may be able to prove it."

Dramatic emotion was so little in Elinor Haughton's line that she shrank back from the embracing arms, the tempestuous words.

But only for a moment. The spell this larger, fuller nature exercised over her own swept her once again into its charmed circle. She returned the kiss, though somewhat timidly, and then, murmuring that her guest must need rest after her long journey, she left the room.

* * * * * *

For long Kathleen Monteath stood where she had left her, gazing into the fire, perfectly motionless. With the closing of the door a sudden apathy fell upon her. Hands, eyes, face, all grew still and blind; dumb of outward expression. "If she knew me as the woman I am," she was thinking. "If she could read me as I can read that transparent soul of hers—if she guessed how, or why, I have done this—would she have called me—friend?"